A Lament
I.
The stars are massing in heaven,
Lid after lid they unfold;
But the showers of light that are given
To the earth are frosty and cold:
The light of each earthly star,
Of Fortune, Honor, and Fame,
Is shining brightly afar,
But cold to the heart is their flame.

II.
The moon sitteth on the mountain,
Like a golden eagle alit
By the brim of a foaming fountain,
Where his wings with the spray are wet;
The moonlight of friendship has vanished,
From the crags that shadow my way,
The stars from my heaven are banished,
And wander sadly away.

III.
The cold wind wails through the flower,
Shaking its leaves to the ground,
And the grass receives the shower
With a melancholy sound:
The flowers of joy are shattered
By sorrow's tyrannous air,
And their crimson leaves are watered
By the night-dew of despair.

IV.
The sphered Venus resteth
Upon a western cone,
And coldly she investeth
With light her icy throne:
The sphered light of Love
Revolves within the heart,
And its wasting fountains move
With a convulsive start.

V.
The shadows of the ridges
Are massed upon the plain,
And there, from withered sedges,
The dying winds complain:
The heavy shades of anguish
Are massed upon the soul,
And there the death-notes languish,
And through its desert roll.

VI.
The snowy tents are sleeping
Upon the dusky prairie,
Like white-winged eagles, keeping
Watch over their lonely eyrie:
The shadows of the Past
Are sitting by my side;
The world is else a vast,
And I with them abide.

VII.
Thin spheres of dew are raining,
Unseen, in the moonlit air;
And the grass, when night is waning,
Bright crowns of frost will wear:
Death-frosts are swiftly chilling
The pulses of the heart;
Slow, slow the harp is thrilling,—
Its harmonies depart.

VIII.
The clouds are slowly steering
Their fleets around the moon;
Amid them she is veering,
To vanish, ah! too soon!—
The moonlight of existence
Is flickering and pale:
And darkly, in the distance,
Death spreads his shadowy sail.

IX.
The soul is slowly moaning
Her sad and stern lament;
Decay is fast dethroning
The passions Heaven lent:
Death's steps are sadly echoing
Its wasted cells within;
Far in its deepest caves they ring,
With melancholy din.

X.
The eagle, proudly soaring,
Mourns not the fleeting night,
When, on the mountains pouring,
Awakes the red daylight:
Why mourn this dream of Life
When happily 'tis waning,
And on its clouds of strife
The light of Death is raining?